an essentially English
thing, and consequently one that it behoves an Englishman to think it
his duty to perform, but we do not extend it to paupers. But should a
pauper get so close to us as to lay hold of us, vowing he was once our
friend, how shake him loose? Tinman foresaw that it might be a matter of
five pounds thrown to the dogs, perhaps ten, counting the glass. He
put on his hat, full of melancholy presentiments; and it was exactly
half-past five o'clock of the spring afternoon when he knocked at
Crickledon's door.

Had he looked into Crickledon's shop as he went by, he would have
perceived Van Diemen Smith astride a piece of timber, smoking a pipe.
Van Diemen saw Tinman. His eyes cocked and watered. It is a disgraceful
fact to record of him without periphrasis. In truth, the bearded fellow
was almost a woman at heart, and had come from the Antipodes throbbing
to slap Martin Tinman on the back, squeeze his hand, run over England
with him, treat him, and talk of old times in the presence of a trotting
regiment of champagne. That affair of the chiwal-glass had temporarily
damped his enthusiasm. The absence of a reply to his double transmission
of cards had wounded him; and something in the look of Tinman disgusted
his rough taste. But the well-known features recalled the days of
youth. Tinman was his one living link to the country he admired as the
conqueror of the world, and imaginatively delighted in as the seat of
pleasures, and he could not discard the feeling of some love for Tinman
without losing his grasp of the reason why, he had longed so fervently
and travelled so breathlessly to return hither. In the days of their
youth, Van Diemen had been Tinman's cordial spirit, at whom he sipped
for cheerful visions of life, and a good honest glow of emotion now and
then. Whether it was odd or not that the sipper should be oblivious, and
the cordial spirit heartily reminiscent of those times, we will not stay
to inquire.

Their meeting took place in Crickledon's shop. Tinman was led in by Mrs.
Crickledon. His voice made a sound of metal in his throat, and his air
was that of a man buttoned up to the palate, as he read from the card,
glancing over his eyelids, "Mr. Van Diemen Smith, I believe."

"Phil Ribstone, if you like," said the other, without rising.

"Oh, ah, indeed!" Tinman temperately coughed.

"Yes, dear me. So it is. It strikes you as odd?"

"The change of name," said Tinman.

"Not nature, though!